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Written  l>\ 

BOB    FLETCHER 

POET    LARIAT 


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// 


Sr-H 

*i*v7 


Li  7  Baldy  Hos 


You  see  that  li'l  baldy  hoss 

A  standin'  over  there, 
His  eyes  half  shut,  his  head  drooped 

With  a  plum'  dejected  air? 
Looks  to  you  worth  'bout  twobits 

An'  not  a  speck  of  use 
But  I  wouldn't  take  a  million 

For  that  li'l  ol'  cayuse! 

That  brand  upon  his  shoulder? 

Sure!    That's  a  "Lazy  B" 
Which  signifies  my  pilgrim  friend, 

That  he  belongs  to  me. 
An'  we've  been  pals  together, 

Fifteen  years  gone  by  last  spring, 
Which  is  longer  than  most  men  agrees. 

An'  that's  a  dead  sure  thing. 

An'  he  has  packed  me  miles  an'  miles, 

Along  the  western  trails. 
From  Montana  down  to  Texas; 

He  could  tell  you  many  tales 
'Bout  the  night  herds,  an'  the  roundup, 

Valley,  mountain,  tableland, 
Chinook  an'  northern  blizzard, 

An'  the  desert's  burning  sand. 


(3? 


y,  he's  tougher  than  the  devil, 
Ain't  so  doggone  long  on  looks, 
ut  he  knows  a  powerful  lot  of  things 
That  ain't  wrote  down  in  books. 

He  knows  the  quiet  coulees, 
He  knows  the  hills  an'  brakes; 

Tlte  alkali  an'  sage  brush, 
An'  the  stagnant  prairie  lakes. 

He  has  seen  the  dogies  milling, 

By  the  crooked  lightning  flash 
]&ye  thousand  longhorns  waiting 

•For  that  hell-bent  thunder  crash 
That  seems  to  set  'em  locoed, 

An'  starts  the  big  stampede, 
While  the  air  is  full  of  terror, 

Like  the  souls  of  Hell  were  freed. 


*?  > 

&_-    »... 


~fr  V 

r* 


e  sure  knows  'bout  the  rangela: 

Cattle,  ropes,  an'  branding  fire, 
An'  he  savvys  what  I'm  talkin' 

Right  now  or  I'm  a  liar. 
For  see  him  cock  his  ears  up 

An'  sorter  bat  his  eyes? 
He's  got  hoot  owls  by  the  tree  full 

Skun  to  death  for  being  wise. 

An'  when  I  point  away  to  find 

The  Happy  Hunting  Ground, 
He'll  be  waiting  there  to  pack  me, 

An'  to  kinder  show  me  'round. 
Course  he's  no  thoroughbred,  but  then 

I'm  here  to  tell  you,  Boss, 
That  I  wouldn't  take  a  million 

For  that  li'l  baldy  hoss! 


16] 


An  Exile's   Wail 


ke  me  out  of  old  Nevada, 

'or  I've  had  enuf  of  sand, 

unipers  and  sage  brush, 
In  this  God  forsaken  land 
Where  there  ain't  enuf  good  water 
To  make  a  sawlog  float, 
W^ere  a  man  must  be  part  camel 

And  the  balance  mountain  goat. 
i 

Where  you  have  to  frisk  your  soogans 

And  shake  your  tarp  at  night, 

'Clause  they're  a  scorpion's  fav'rite  place 

To  take  his  homestead  right. 

I've  grown  tired  of  lean  jackrabbits, 

Swifts,  coyotes  and  rattlesnakes, 

Divorcees,  Gila  monsters, 

And  wildcat  mining  fakes. 


I've  grown  tired  of  sunscorched  desert 

And  of  mountains  that  are  bare. 

And  there's  such  a  thing  as  too  much 

Alkali  and  prickly  pear. 

And  talk  of  porphyry  dikes  and  float, 

Contact  veins  and  lodes, 

And  when  you're  lonesome,  say,  who  gives 

A  damn,  for  just  horned  toads? 


A^  -  ^'/ 


^      A 

3^   V^"  •''  \  '* 


if! 


I  want  to  see  the  prairie 

And  the  dogies  on  the  range, 

An'  mountain  trout  a  fryin' 

In  bacon  grease,  would  be  a  change; 

I  want  to  see  the  ponies 

In  the  dust  of  the  corral, 

I  don't  want  to  be  a  knocker, 

But  gee!     This  State  is  hell! 

Take  me  where  they  savvy  "coulees," 
"Buttes,"  "cayuses,"  an'  such  dope, 
Where  a  "fuzz-tail"  is  a  "slick-ear," 
Where  the  boys  don't  "lass',"  they  "rop 
Stranger,  I  am  sure  plum'  lonesome 
For  a  fairer,  better  land, 
What's  that  you  say?    MONTANA!  ! 
Well,  say,  I'd  tell  a  man!  !  ! 


o 


[7] 


The  Belled  Coyote 


no  one  loves  a  coyote 
,t  I  ever  heard  about, 
'.e's  nothing  but  a  pestilence 
Requiring  stamping  out. 
A  sneaking,  thieving  rustler, 
A  grey,  ga'nt  vagabone 
Whose  locoed  vocal  tendencies 
Are  lacking  depth  and  tone. 

Seems  like  he's  always  hungry, 
An'  Lord,  man,  when  he  wails 
It's  the  concentrated  sinfulness 
From  lost  and  vanished  trails. 
Well,  there's  one  of  them  Carusos 
Hangs  around  the  Lazy  B 
An'  makes  hisself  obnoxious, 
Most  plum'  consistently. 

So  one  day,  a  cayuse  dying, 
We  surrounds  the  corpse  with  traps, 
Where  we  cached  it  in  a  coulee, 
A  thinkin'  that  perhaps 
In  a  moment,  inadvertent, 
That  coyote  will  come  around, 
An'  meet  a  lot  of  darn  tough  luck, 
An'  we  will  have  him  downed. 


Sure  enuf,  he  made  an  error, 
For  he  let  his  appetite 
Prevail  agin'  his  judgment, 
And  we  cinched  him  that  same 
He  made  connections  with  one 
And  jumpin'  'round  about, 
Another  glommed  him  by  a  leg 
And  sorter  stretched  him  out. 

Naw!  Pard,  we  didn't  shoot  him, 
Just  aimed  to  give  him  hell. 
So  we  took  an'  strapped  around  his  n 
A  jinglin'  little  bell 
And  turned  him  loose  to  ramble. 
Yes,  I  reckon  it  was  cruel, 
Ain't  a  cottontail  or  sagehen 
That  is  just  a  plain  darn  fool 

Enuf  to  not  take  warning, 
When  they  heard  that  little  bell, 
An'  so  he  doesn't  get  much  food  or 
Company,  I'm  here  to  tell. 
He's  an  outlaw  with  his  own  kind, 
And  his  pickin's  pretty  slim, 
'Cause  ev'rywhere  he  goes  the  bell 
Gives  warnin'  that  it's  him. 


€0. 


o 


[9] 


n'  sometimes  when  it's  getting  dusk 
An'  ev'rything  plum'  still, 
You  can  hear  that  bell  a  tolling 
As  he  slips  around  a  hill. 
And  it  kind  of  gets  upon  my  nerves, 
That,  and  his  mournful  cry, 
Cause  I  know  the  skunk  is  fond  of 
Same  as  you  and  I. 


One  day  I'm  in  the  saddle 
A  buildin'  up  of  a  smoke, 
When  he  sneaks  out  of  a  coulee, 
And,  man,  it  ain't  no  joke, 
When  I  sees  him  starved  and  lonesome 
A  lookin'  most  all  in, 
WTell,  perhaps  I'm  chicken  hearted 
But  it  seemed  a  dirty  sin, 

And  besides,  that  bell,  it  haunts  me, 
So  there  doesn't  seem  to  be 
A  way  to  square  things,  but  to 
Put  him  out  of  misery 
So  I  takes  my  30-30 
As  he  sits  and  gives  a  yell. 
I  drawed  a  bead  an'  cracked  away, 
An'  busted  that  damn  bell! 


[10] 


{fe*";-"~'^ 


Desert  Rat 


Sure  we've  been  out  on  the  desert, 
Me  and  that  burro  there. 
Searchin'  around  for  the  rainbow's  en 
Missin'  her  just  by  a  hair. 
Say,  an'  them  ol'  forty-niners 
Never  had  nothin'  on  us 
Talk  about  crossin'  the  desert. 
Talk  about  "Pike's  Peak  or  bust." 

That  Rocky  Mountain  canary 

An'  me  has  been  hittin'  the  trail, 

Both  of  us  footsore  and  weary, 

Both  of  us  thin  as  a  rail. 

An'  stranger,  this  ol'  town  of  Reno 

Ain't  half  so  bad  as  you  think, 

For  eatin',  there's  some  things  that  aren't  in  cans 

An'  something  that's  decent  to  drink.  • 

Why  go  out  on  the  desert 

When  there's  still  lots  of  room  left  in  Hell? 

Well  listen  and  I'll  try  to  tell  you 

Tho'  it's  something  not  easy  to  tell. 

A  tenderfoot  talked  to  me,  one  time, 

And  raved  of  the  desert's  lure 

Tho'  the  desert's  no  place  for  a  pilgrim, 

And  would  drive  him  plum'  loco,  sure. 


[ii] 


;here's  something  about  it  that  gets  yo 
You  don't  notice  it  right  at  the  start, 
Till  you  hate  it,  you  loathe  it,  you  curse  it, 
Yet  love  it  way  down  in  your  heart. 
Perhaps  it's  the  hills,  when  the  sunlight 
Paints  them  all  yellow  and  red. 

s  gaudy  as  bucks  at  a  war  dance; 

erhaps  it's  the  graves  of  the  dead 

That  border  the  trails  between  water, 
Perhaps  it's  the  shifting  sand, 
Perhaps  it's  the  gold  that  lies  hidden, 
Perhaps  it's  the  blood  of  a  man. 
God!  but  it's  hot  on  the  desert, 
When  the  sun  shines  at  its  best. 
Say!  but  it's  cold  on  the  desert, 
When  the  sun  sinks  in  the  west. 


[12J 


fc*ftf 

^     A     - 


Once  I  hit  it  plum'  lucky, 
Swore  that  I'd  cash  in  my  stack, 
Go  and  live  in  God's  country 
But  hell!  Of  course  I  came  back. 
Lonesome,  I  guess,  for  the  rattlers, 
Taranterlers,  swifts,  and  the  like, 
Restless,  with  water  a  plenty 
Just  had  to  get  out  and  hike. 

Wanted  to  see  the  sandhills, 
The  mirage,  that's  a  beautiful  lie 
And  all  of  the  things  of  the  desert — 
The  things  that  money  can't  buy. 
Sure,  it's  pretty  in  Reno 
The  lights  and  the  trees,  but  then, 
As  soon  as  I  get  me  a  grubstake, 
It's  back  to  the  desert  again. 


o 


[13] 


Come  and  Get  It 


've  heard  tell  of  that  restauraw, 
ere  eastern  pilgrims  feed, 
un  by  a  sport  "Dell  Monikker," 
Or  some  such  foreign  breed. 

'Vhere  they  have  a  band  a  playin' 
v'ry  evenin',  while  they  eat, 
An*  solid  silver  knives  an'  forks, 
An'  clothes!  !  why,  Holy  Pete, 


The  gents  wear  dinky  bugtail  coats, 
Fried  collars,  baldfaced  shirts, 

The  garls  just  have  on  wide  suspenders 
Holding  up  their  skirts 

An'  say,  they  eat  the  darndest  stuff, 
The  names  all  parley  voo, 

It's  all  wrote  out  upon  a  card, 
That  they  calls  the  "menoo." 

Now  tho'  I  ain't  no  tourist, 
Yet,  pard,  I'm  here  to  say, 
That  I  once  et  in  Helena 
Down  at  the  Weiss  Cafe, 

Where  a  pussyfooted  waiter 

Comes  and  asks  you  with  a  smile, 
Whatever  are  you  goin'  to  have, 
Oh,  they  sure  put  on  style. 


[14] 


But  my  oP  pardner,  Copper  Jack's, 
hL  [The  best  cook  in  the  land. 
*.M;  ;I  plays  that  bet  agin'  'em  all 

And  don't  lay  down  my  hand. 

We  got  a  quartz  claim  in  the  hills, 
An'  holes  up  in  our  shack 

Up  near  the  head  of  Injun  Gulch, 
Just  me  and  Copper  Jack. 

Say,  he  don't  use  no  recipes, 
Nor  ladies'  cookin'  book, 

Tho'  he  can  swing  a  double  jack 
He  likewise  sure  can  cook. 

For  breakfast  there  is  hot  cakes, 
An'  bosom  of  the  sow, 

Sugar  lick  an'  warmed  up  spuds, 
A  can  of  Silver  Cow 

To  put  into  your  Java 
Or,  if  you  like  it  black, 

No  man  can  make  it  blacker. 
Why,  damn  it,  that  oP  Jack 

Can  cook  them  sourdough  bullets, 
Light  as  foam,  an'  lighter,  too, 
w:  Frijolies,  punk,  and  mulligan 
Like  mother  used  to  do. 

We  has  smear  and  roughlock, 
Huckleberry  pie  as  well, 

An'  we  don't  aim  to  let  no  deer 
Come  up  and  bite  us.    Hell, 


[15] 


"i 

ere's  trout  in  ev'ry  riffle, 
Grouse  in  ev'ry  tree. 

An'  cottontails  an'  foolhens, 
Plum'  numerous  they  be. 

ow  when  a  man  can  have  such  feeds 
All  cooked  swell  as  you  please 
What's  the  use  of  lobster  salad 
An'  such  luxuries? 

And  honey  would  be  honey 

~on't  you  reckon,  just  the  same, 
And  not  taste  any  sweeter 
With  a  locoed  foreign  name? 

ell,  I  just  blew  in  here  pard 
To  get  a  grubstake  and  the  mail, 
An'  now  I've  got  to  haze  them  pack 
Cayuses  up  the  trail, 

ut  if  you  come  up  that  a  way 
For  deer  or  elk  or  game, 

Drop  in.     A  drink?     No,  thanks, 
But  here's  luck  just  the  same. 

Injun  Gulch — Sure!     Don't  forget  it. 
Got  to  breeze  now,  on  the  square. 

So  when  Jack  yells  "Come  and  get  it," 
Place  your  chips  that  I'll  be  there. 


[16] 


•r  ^X-  S 
4^ifi'<w/ 

<>*v<V^ 


Chance  Gulch 


Ire( 


on  you  have  all  heard  told 
About  them  days  of  yeller  gold 
When  gals  were  scarce,  and  men 
In  Last  Chance  Gulch. 


Them  good  oP  days  of  Sixty-six 

When  men  sluiced  fortunes  from  the  cricks 
And  weren't  up  to  skin  game  tricks 
In  Last  Chance  Gulch. 


They  never  used  to  lock  a  door 

They  blew  their  gold,  and  sluiced  out  m 
And  argued  with  a  forty-four 
In  Last  Chance  Gulch. 

They  used  to  play  the  wheel  with  dust, 
Make  a  killin' — or  else  bust; 
They  never  let  a  dollar  rust 
In  Last  Chance  Gulch. 

fir 

They  used  to  drink  their  forty  rod, 
An',  when  a  gent  got  on  the  prod, 
They  gave  him  lots  of  room,  by  God, 
In  Last  Chance  Gulch. 


'(53 


[171 


he  got  too  gay  an'  free, 
ances  were  that  he  would  be 
Escorted  to  the  "Hangman's  Tree," 

In  Last  Chance  Gulch. 


r,  if  just  asked  to  pull  his  freight, 
"Tvaere  best  he  shouldn't  hesitate, 

They  used  to  take  their  likker  straight, 
In  Last  Chance  Gulch. 

But  nowadays  things  look  plum'  strange, 
Fox  there  has  been  a  heap  of  change, 
They've  fenced  the  freedom  of  the  range 
Chance  Gulch. 


An'  when  the  last  ol'  timer's  died 
An'  took  the  last,  long,  lonesome  ride, 
To  some'eres  cross  the  Great  Divide, 
From  Last  Chance  Gulch, 

I  reckon,  when  he  gets  on  high 
To  'Lysian  Fields  up  in  the  sky, 

He'll  size  'em  up  —  then  heave  a  sigh, 
For  Last  Chance  Gulch. 


[18] 


,?<«%  w*u 

^l^Stranger,  Times  Ain't 'L 

They  Used  To  Be 
f  ** 

My  spurs  are  getting  rusty 

And  my  rope  is  laid  away, 
And  the  leather's  rotting  on  my  saddle 

My  chaps  are  getting  musty, 

My  hair  is  getting  grey, 
For,  stranger,  times  ain't  what  they  used  to  be 

The  dogies  used  to  scatter 
Where  the  grass  was  belly  deep, 
«»    Where  the  coyote  used  to  sing  his  tale  of  woe; 
But  it's  now  a  different  matter, 
For  first  there  came  the  sheep, 
And  then  that  eastern  fellow  with  the  hoe. 

The  trails  are  growing  dimmer, 
(Where  they  ain't  plowed  under  yet) 

For  they  travel  now  on  roads,  by  section 

And  the  range  is  getting  slimmer, 
jr>  Us  old  timers  too,  you  bet, 

Till  a  fellow  feels  like  cussin' — or  a  cryin'. 

Now  where's  the  roundup  wagon?      & 

Oh,  where's  the  old  time  stage? 
And  where's  the  boys  that  wore  the  high  heeled 
boots  ? 

There  is  just  a  few  a  laggin' 

With  the  alkali  and  sage, 
And  a  cussin'  out  the  dryland  farm  galoots. 


[19] 


here's  the  buffalo  and  beaver, 
Say — where's  the  antelope? 
Where's  the  freighters   on  the   old  Cow 

trail? 

Well,  pard,  they  had  to  leave  'er, 
Had  to  quit  and  give  up  hope, 
hen  the  squatters  came  and  range  began   to 
fail. 

The  chinooks  don't  seem  so  mellow 
And  the  air  ain't  half  as  sweet, 
y,  there  ain't  no  real  cowpunchers  out  here  now ; 
Nowadays  you  see  a  fellow 
A  settin'  in  a  seat 
And  a  discing  or  a  riding  on  a  plow. 

V 

With  their  whiskey  now,  they  have  a 

Big  red  cherry  in  the  glass, 
Or  maybe  there's  a  little  chunk  of  ice. 

Do  they  call  their  "4X"  Java? 

Hell,  no!    Now  it's  "demi  tasse," 
And  a  man  can't  eat  these  days  without  the  price. 


[20] 


ft. 


i  />• 


i\>r  the  ranches  where  they  mee 

With  a  welcome  and  a  meal 
And  want  that  you  should  make  a  week  long  call 

Are  scarce — for  now  they  greet  you 

Like  a  rustler  come  to  steal 
And  tax  you — if  they  let  you  stop  at  all. 

Man,  it  ain't  no  use  a  tryin' 

To  save  a  single  foot, 

Guess  them  dryland  farmer  folks  are  bound  to 
come, 

Ain't  no  use  in  even  dyin' 

Cause  some  day  they'll  fence  and  put 
The  Happy  Hunting  Ground  all  on  the  bum. 

So  my  spurs  are  getting  rusty 

And  my  rope  is  laid  away 
And  the  leather's  rotting  on  my  saddle  tree, 

My  chaps  are  getting  musty 

My  hair  is  getting  grey 
For,  stranger,  times  ain't  like  they  used  to  be. 


[21] 


/  Clinch  Your  Knees  and  Le 
a  Little  Back 


When  they  hand  you  out  the  rough  string, 
Pard,  don't  think  you're  out  of  luck, 
Rope  the  toughest  bronc  and  top  him  off  first 

crack, 

Cinch  your  cactus  on,  and  crawl  him 
And  when  he  starts  to  buck 
ust  clinch  your  knees  and  lean  a  little  back. 

When  the  cards  all  run  agin'  you 

'Till  you  think  you'd  best  adjourn 
Cause  the  jack  wins,  when  you're  coppering  th< 
jack, 

If  the  game  is  on  the  square — don't  quit 

Perhaps  you'll  call  the  turn, 
Just  clinch  your  knees  and  lean  a  little  back. 


[22] 


A 


S'pose  you've  crosscut  all  the  summer, 
Haven't  cut  that  good  pay  ground, 

And  you  wish  you'd  never  seen  a  single  jack, 
Why,  just  stay  with  it,  pardner, 
You  might  fetch  her  one  more  round, 

Just  clinch  your  knees  and  lean  a  little  back. 


For  it  can't  be  always  summer, 

Got  to  have  a  little  snow, 
Sunshine  can't  be  always  peekin'  in  your  sha 

Never  mind,  tho'  it  is  winter 

That  chinook  is  bound  to  blow 
So  just  clinch  your  knees  and  lean  a  little  back. 


efore  the  Days  of  Gasolim 


re,  that's  the  trail  to  Zortman 
Pointing  out  there  thru  the  sage, 
And  that  dust  cloud  you  remarks  on 
Is  the  automobile  stage 
Which  it  makes  me  plum'  disgusted 
When  I  think  of  what  I've  seen, 
A  fogging  that  same  trail,  before 
The  days  of  gasoline. 


I  reckon,  like  the  buffalo, 
The  wild  west  days  must  pass, 
And  the  old  stage  coach  is  going 
Like  the  puncher  and  the  grass. 
It  was  prettier  to  look  at, 
Wasn't  poisoning  the  air 
Like  that  coughing,  wheezing  skunk  cai 
That's  a  coming  over  there. 

Them  days  she  was  a  Concord  coach, 
The  kind  that's  hung  on  straps, 
You've  seen  'em  in  the  Wild  West  shows 
Or  museums — perhaps, 
And  they'd  string  out  six  cayuses, 
Come  a  swinging  down  the  street, 
Pull  up  at  the  hotel, 
Badland  Bill  upon  the  seat. 


[24] 


':*>w 


And  them  leaders  would  be  danciri 
An'  the  swing  team,  restless  like, 
The  wheelers  true  and  steady 
Waiting  for  the  word  to  hike. 
They'd  fill  'er  up  with  passengers, 
Both  inside,  and  on  top, 
Bill  would  sort  the  ribbons  out, 
Then  make  the  buckskin  pop. 

The  team  would  hit  the  collar, 
Apalucy,  roan  and  bay, 
A  heading  for  the  Hog  Ranch 
Over  twenty  miles  away. 
They  wouldn't  linger  on  the  trail 
Or  stop  for  any  hill, 
Wa'nt  a  man  could  pour  the  leather 
Into  them,  like  Badland  Bill. 

And  so  they'd  go  a  swayin' 
And  a  breezin'  cross  the  range, 
Didn't  have  no  low  gear 
Or  punctured  tires  to  change.          4 
Aw!  it  makes  me  plum'  disgusted 
When  I  think  of  what  I've  seen 
A  foggin'  that  same  trail  before 
The  days  of  gasoline. 


O 


[25] 


Grizzly  Bill 


n  hombre  both  simple  and  ancient 
Is  this  party  old  Grizzly  Bill 
Which  he's  been  holed  up  here  in  these  diggi 
Since  the  gulch  there  was  only  a  hill. 
He  imbibes  and  he  waxes  loquacious 
£±  frequent  and  set  interludes, 
And  the  pilgrims  term  him  local  color 
For  his  job  is  a  wrangling  the  dudes. 

Give  Bill  a  good  jolt  of  four  fingers 

And  his  tongue  will  line  out  on  a  lope, 

I  opine  that  this  reckless  old  savage 

Throws  a  wicked  and  long  verbal  rope. 

He  ain't  hobbled  nor  hampered  by  conscience, 

Plain  facts  to  old  Bill  are  plumb  strange, 

He  throws  off  the  bridle  of  Truth,  and 

He  turns  loose  his  fancy  to  range. 

One  time,  now,  he  strings  out  verbose  like, 
His  hand's  overplayed  once,  dead  sure; 
Does  it  injure  that  wolf's  reputation? 
Hell,  no — why,  this  old  raconteur 
Who  sure  is  deserving  a  hanging 
Had  them  shorthorns  admiring  his  gush. 
Stranger,  here  is  the  tale  that  he  renders, 
And  does  it  without  qualm  or  blush: 


[26] 


'X* 


fc  # 

T7 

He's  a  herdin'  a  parcel  of  pilgrims,     x\ 

One  sport  packs  a  small  flash  of  rye 

Which  he'd  fetched  to  this  garrulous  Willyum 

Till  his  breath  smelled  like  steaming  mince  pie 

So  then  Bill's  alleged  brain  started  seething, 

With  nary  a  thought  of  his  sins, 

He  uncinches  the  pack  of  his  mem'ry 

Builds  a  smoke  for  himself  and  begins: 

"See  this  Paradise,  beautyus  though  earthy, 
As  one  of  these  poets  would  say, 
Which  we  done  took  away  from  the  Injun 
Way  back  in  a  past  early  day? 
And  you  note  them  far  off  distant  mountains? 
The  Moccasin  Range,  is  their  name, 
Well,  strangers,  I've  been  here  a  lifetime 
And  thev  was  all  here  when  I  came. 


In  them  days  there  wasn't  no  railroads, 

And  likewise  no  autos  to  honk, 

And  to  travel,  I'm  saying  you  all  went  by  hand 

Unless  you  were  forking  a  bronc.  ^ 

You  packed  in  them  days  an  old  rifle 

With  a  homeopath  dose  of  lead  pills 

For  the  Injuns  that  roamed  were  plumb  hostile 

Infesting  these  yere  peaceful  hills. 


O 


[27] 


e,  why,  I've  got  me  some  dogies 
A  ranging  around  in  them  days, 
So  one  morning  I  saddled  up  Hotfoot 
And  lined  out  a  looking  for  strays. 
This  Hotfoot  horse  sure  is  some  pony, 
All  horse  from  his  hocks  to  his  ears, 
nd  fast — well,  a  touch  in  the  flank,  pards, 
d  he  vanishes;  plumb  disappears. 


About  noon  we  clum  out  of  a  coulee 

f~  ooked  back  down  the  trail  and  I  see 
ull   sixty-nine   gaudy   buck  warriors 
A  comin' — fair  splittin  the  breeze. 
I  don't  stop  to  ponder  the  matter, 
And  Hotfoot  starts  off  on  his  feet, 
Something  told  me  unless  we  moved  sudden 
We'd  sure  be  those  savages'  meat. 

Them  wild,  roving  children  of  nature 
Are  persistent,  for  come  three  o'clock 
Those  Siwashes  still  are  a  trailing, 
Twenty  now  left  in  the  flock. 
So  I  figured  I'd  best  quit  the  prairie 
And  point  for  the  mountains  instead, 
So  I  sauntered  away  for  a  canyon 
And  sure  gave  old  Hotfoot  his  head. 


[28] 


' 'Jf  ' 

Pretty  soon  them  old  trees  whistled  by  usP 
Till  they  looked  to  all  signs  and  intents 
As  close  together  as  shingles 
And  like  my  old  Dad's  picket  fence. 
Six  p.  m.  and  the  canyon,  she  narrows, 
Walls  straight  up  as  ever  you'd  find, 
And  I  hear  the  blood  curdling  echo 
Of  them  redskins  a  whooping  behind. 

This  canyon  is  crooked  as  corkscrews, 

We  made  a  sharp  turn  and  kerplunk — 

Old  Hotfoot  rares  back  on  his  haunches 

And  slid  fifty  feet  on  his  rump. 

For  there  a  straight  wall  is  a  standing, 

Blocking  the  trail,  what  I  mean, 

And  say — talk  about  your  box  canyons, 

The  worst  that  I  ever  have  seen. 


o 


129] 


limbered  my  trusty  Sharps  rifle, 
And  I  done  kissed  myself  a  goodbye, 
I  shot  the  first  ten  of  them  Injuns 
Dead  center,  full  square  in  the  eye 
Which  leaves  me  without  ammunition, 
And  ten  Injuns  left,  too,  you  see; 
They  let  out  a  triumphant  war  cry, 
And  spread  like  a  blanket  on  me." 


Right  here  Grizzly  Bill  stopped  his  story 

Leaving  them  pilgrims  aghast; 

"Oh,  mercy,  oh,  how  did  they  treat  you?" 

Says  a  she  one,  all  breathless,  at  last. 

Then  Bill  bats  his  eyes  for  a  minute, 

He  chokes  and  he  sighs  dolorous, 

"Why,  ma'am,  them  there  heathen,  they  killed 

me," 
Asserts  that  there  lyin'  old  cuss. 


[30] 


A 


*k-^ 

*  4 


>-  4* 

£#£  Crosses  The  Great  Divid 


I'm  feeling  plumb  sad  and  despondent 

I've  sure  got  some  sorrow  to  tote, 

There's  a  pain  way  down  here  in  my  chest,  par 

And  sort  of  a  lump  in  my  throat. 

That  meadlow  lark's  tune,  now,  seems  mou 

And  the  sun's  even  trying  to  hide, 

For  old  Jim — why,  Jim  left  me  this  morning 

And  pointed  across  the  Divide. 

I  knew  that  it  couldn't  last  always, 
Knew  some  day  old  Jim  had  to  go, 
That  some  day  I'd  lose  my  old  pardner, 
But  that  doesn't  soften  the  blow. 
Now,  Jim  wasn't  handsome  to  look  at, 
His  ancestors  weren't  real  swell; 
But  take  old  Jim  here  in  the  rangeland, 
And  he  savied  things,  I'm  here  to  tell. 


O 


Sometimes  when  we're  riding  on  nighthei 

Cattle  quiet  and  easy  to  hold, 

Maybe  the  moon  is  a  shining 

And  the  stars  look  like  nuggets  of  gold, 

Then  I've  talked  by  the  hour  to  my  par/fher 

As  man  seldom  talks  to  a  man. 

Of  my  dreams  and  my  innermost  feelings, 

For  he'd  listen  and  sure  understand. 


[31] 


and  kind  as  a  woman, 
Dependable,  too,  was  old  Jim; 
Oh,  the  toughest  of  times  we  both  weathered 
With  never  a  whimper  from  him. 

you've  felt  joy  and  sorrow  together, 
hen  you've  taken  the  bitter  and  sweet 
.nd  still  stick  together,  why  stranger 
ch  friendship  is  sure  hard  to  beat. 


So  that  is  the  reason  I  miss  him, 

The  reason  it  makes  it  so  hard — 

No  man  that  I  ever  met  up  with 

Can  take  the  same  place  as  my  pard. 

Perhaps  you  will  watch  for  me,  Jimmy, 

Perhaps  we  will  ride  as  before, 

But  I'm  missing  you,  Jim — little  cow  horse — 

The  best  ever  wore  hackamore. 


ft 


Croix  de  Guerre' 


I'V8 


I'm  on  a  high  lope  for  the  home  range, 
I'm  a  wolf,  and  it's  my  night  to  yell) 
I've  got  my  discharge  in  my  pocket 
And  it's  white  paper,  I'm  here  to  tell. 
I'm  tired  :of  this  yere  raging  warfare, 
Give  me  action  that's  not  so  acute. 
Say  the  hurricane  deck  of  a  bronco 
Or  some  such  like  peaceful  pursuit. 

I  was  riding  way  down  near  the  Bear  Paws 
When  a  bunch  of  us  wild  buckeroos 
Comes  hazin',  one  day,  to  Big  Sandy 
In  search  of  red  liquor  and  news. 
Watchful  waiting  we  learn  is  abandoned 
So  I  quit  that  there  cow  hand  environ, 
For  I  aimed  to  go  get  me  some  Germans 
And  to  ride  for  the  old  U.  S.  iron. 

Now,  stranger,  I'm  raised  in  a  saddle; 
Pedestrians,  I'm  taught  to  scorn, 
BlSt  I  take  off  my  Stetson  to  DOUGHBOYS 
For  they  made  me  one,  sure  as  you're  born. 
Then  they  done  shipped  me  over  the  ocean, 
Yes,  stranger,  I've  been  "over  there"; 
And  we  sure  filled  a  lot  of  them  Boches 
Full  of  holes  as  a  cane  bottomed  chair. 


JH 

This,  now,  Paris  place — I'm  not  a  lyin', 
Them  Omaha  stockyards  are  great, 
But  gee,  they  don't  stack  up  with  Paris, 
Though  of  course  I  ain't  seen  'em  of  late. 
That  there  cross?     Well,  now,   stranger, 


; 

Good  Lord,  I  don't  know  what  I  done, 
But  one  of  them  Frogs  pinned  it  on  me 
And  kissed  me — the  son  of  a  gun. 

But  I'm  tired  of  this  being  a  maverick 
There's  a  schoolma'am  I'm  anxious  to  see, 
She's  sure  got  me  roped,  thrown,  and  hog  tied, 
Montana  will  look  good  to  me. 
And  I'm  tired  of  this  yere  raging  warfare, 
Give  me  action  that's  not  so  acute, 
Such  as  bustin'  a  steer  at  the  round  up 
Or  some  such  like  peaceful  pursuit. 


w  6^  - 

/ 
f  ^^^/ 


^^^^/^ 


Copyright,    192(t.    by 
Rol)ort    Fletcher,    Helena,    Montana. 

Designed   and   Printed   by- 
Independent   Publishing   Co. 
of   Helena,    Montana. 


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